


I Never Was (But Am Always To Be)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Godfathers and their goddaughters, Iris being protective, References to Depression, Riddles, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: At the end of the day, Edward knows he'll never be enough.





	I Never Was (But Am Always To Be)

The unfortunate realization that yet another family dinner is about to hop in the fast lane to Hell comes when Virginia starts off with a detailed account of her latest romantic expedition over the rolls. It lasts well into the appetizers and salads before coming to an end with the main course’s arrival. As soon as her cousin stops talking, Joan starts counting seconds.

Nineteen.

“Joan, darling,” Aunt Marge says, while the waiter is refilling glasses of sweet tea, “who is the newest man in _your_ life?”

Newest man. As if Joan has the reputation of breaking hearts left and right; of hosting a trail of mile-long suitors at her doorstep, day after day. As if Joan is the glamorous one; the Hollywood heartthrob in stilettos and too-short-skirts who knows just how to lower eyelashes and smile in just the right way to melt a man’s knees. Newest man, indeed.

“I’ve been very busy with work, Auntie.” Joan answers, and waits for the rest of the meal to be ruined.

***

Two weeks later, she’s in a little wine shop on 12th street with a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand and White Zinfandel in the other.

“I don’t remember you being a wine-drinker, Joan.”

It’s become common for her to run into Edward, at least once a week. For a city of such sprawling lengths, Gotham manages to be an infinitely small town when it comes to encountering the one person with whom (according to her mother) she shouldn’t ever associate – and the one person who can, effortlessly, throw her composure off-kilter. “I’m not.” She answers, determined to keep her tone steady, and keeps eyeing the two bottles with critical consideration.

“But your date is.”

(He doesn’t sound as bitter as the last time. But that’s not saying much; last time, he looked fairly on the verge of homicide.)

“I’m just being a gracious host.” She cringes as soon as the betraying details break air, then cringes again for acting as though words on her part were necessary at all; as if a man of his intellect and keen perception couldn’t pick up on the occasion strictly from her unusually glamorous attire.

“My, my,” now his tone creeps into the territory of dry sarcasm, “hosting a gentleman in your personal residence, without a chaperone. Your mother must be getting desperate to encourage your lack of propriety.”

She knows he’s thinking of the many, _many_ , times in prior years where an innocent gathering for two in the treehouse (or back shed, or playground, or…) was proclaimed a shameful occasion and punished accordingly: for her, a lengthy lecture; for him, a whipping with belts and beer bottles.

Joan puts the Chardonnay back on the shelf and tucks the chosen bottle in close, like some obscure shield from the reality she excels at escaping, day…after day…after day…after day. “Have a good evening, Edward.”

She picked the wrong wine. It’s still sitting untouched on her table when the date ends…forty-five minutes later.

*** 

“She’s never going to choose me.” Edward says; it’s both unexpected and long-time-coming, when the words finally make their entrance. It’s a cool spring night, the room illuminated only by firelight and a solitary lamp. An untouched whiskey sits on the table, a short distance away. The polished appearance of a man who lifted Oswald Cobblepot to the mayor’s office and just celebrated an anniversary at the GCPD is tossed aside in various clothing articles, littered here and there in his room.

Fortunately, his present company is small and doesn’t demand formalities.

“I’m never going to be enough.” He continues; half for the purpose of breaking a silence he finds oppressive, half because the man sitting across from him isn’t one who will pass judgment. “Year after year, I’ve tried. Done everything I can think of, and what has it amounted to? Nothing. _Nothing_!”

He shoves himself upright; paces around the back of the couch. “I saw her today, in the street market. She wouldn’t even look at me.”

“So why are you still chasing her?” Zsasz—Victor—whatever—sounds bored, but the man always sounds bored. He reserves inflections (traditionally amusement) for private affairs with his family and any opportunity to dissect living flesh.

As he is oft to do, Zsasz asks the question Edward has either been avoiding, unware of, or some combination thereof. This question, in particular, he supposes is the latter.

“She could love me.” Edward whispers, fingers deep in the back cushions. He wonders, absently, if furniture can bruise. “If she would just let herself love me, she could.”

“She hasn’t.” Zsasz slowly takes a drink from his long-stemmed wine canter. “At this point, you’re just a dog chasing cars.”

(Subtlety has never been Victor Zsasz’s specialty.)

The grip tightens, dangerously, and Edward pulls hands away before he damages the furniture. It isn’t to blame for this, any of this, and he’s rather fond of this particular piece. He and Iris have spent some very pleasant evenings here, talking about nothing.

_Iris._ Iris loves him. Isn’t in love with him, but loves him. He knows it; has always known it. She isn’t afraid to show it: in the way her eyes shine when she looks at him, smiles at him; in the casual-but-deliberate way she reaches out and squeezes his hand for no reason; in the way she listens and speaks and treasures every moment spent together. She’s invited him into her world: this place of transparent secrets, of clandestine truths; of dark and light. She’s dressed him in shades of grey like an emperor, a prince, a great figure of wise words and royal worth.

Iris isn’t afraid…but Joan is. Joan always has been. Joan always will be.

Joan will never love Edward Nygma.

*** 

Most people at the precinct don’t notice, but Jim Gordon isn’t most people. When Edward doesn’t show up for his shift the first day, Jim takes notice but assumes it’s a 24-hour bug. He makes a point to stop by Ed’s loft after work, with plans of inquiring after his health and if he needs anything from the pharmacy. 

No one answers the door.

The next day, Edward is still a no-show. A couple officers grumble about having to do this-or-that, but don’t pay the bespectacled man any further mind. Lee asks if Jim has heard anything. He hasn’t, and stops by the loft again. This time, he knocks more than the customary three-raps.

Still, no answer.

The week ends without a word, without a note of apology…nothing. The grumbling is growing louder. Calvin Steers expresses what is, aside from Jim and Lee, probably the most genuine concern. He tells Jim, after the fact, he made a stop by Ed’s loft on his lunch break. He says there was an answer at the door when he knocked, but not from Edward Nygma. It was the landlord, and the landlord’s cleaning crew. All remaining rent has been paid, and Mr. Nygma no longer occupies his downtown loft.

Lee calls his cell phone. It’s been disconnected.

Jim heads straight to DeLaine Manor. His inquiries are put on hold, temporarily, while he impatiently waits out the conclusion of Iris’ meeting with her ranking lieutenants. Gilzean offers a drink, more than once; Jim assumes his lack of patience is showing in unfavorable shades and tries to pull himself together.

Breathing exercises last until the doors open and men start filing out, leaving their leader alone. Jim knocks a few shoulders in his forward stride, only to be reminded by a snarling Shakta that any further proximity will not be tolerated at this time.

“Where is he, Iris?” he says, trying (and failing) to sound calm. “Where’s Ed?”

It’s about this time that he realizes Iris is absent her usual decorum. Her shoulders seem heavy, and she doesn’t greet him with a gentle smile about being such a worrier, and how there’s a perfectly logical explanation for the last five days, and proceed to hand over that perfectly logical explanation. She looks…sad.

“Start searching for his replacement at the precinct.” She says, very quietly. “Edward will not be coming back.”

***

Edward passes days under the shelter of DeLaine Manor. Solace is found in Celeste’s company. She’s become such a lovely young woman, now two months shy of her eleventh birthday: long blonde curls trailing to her waist; blue eyes sparkling with her smile and a mind constantly seeking new information. She’s grown so, from the days wherein she was a plump-cheeked babe perched on his lap eagerly staring at book pages and giggling at the way his fingers tapped her nose.

Now, she sits at his side instead of his lap and brings him books. She does not understand the complete cause of his distracted mind, and takes note of his weary frame with a frown puckering slim eyebrows, but she knows books make him happy, and so she provides happiness.

As best she knows how. He suspects Celeste is aware of more than she lets on: that her young mind isn’t as blissfully unaware of life, of feelings, of reality, as most children are. But then again, she isn’t like most children.

Celeste suggests he start writing about his “adventures”: the cases he has handled as an employee of the medical examiner’s office. Personally, Edward doubts these retellings are worthy of immortalization and tells his goddaughter as much.

With the perfect practicality she obviously inherited from her mother, she already has an answer, “Make them into mysteries!” she chirps, blue eyes sparkling and pink lips smiling bright, “Make your readers figure out the ending, like a game!”

Games are yet another source of kinship between them; before Celeste was born, Edward openly enjoyed video games for purposes of entertainment and, to a lesser extent, mental stimulation. When he met Iris, a childhood passion for chess was renewed, and it has continued strong to the next generation. Celeste has her mother’s brilliance, her father’s quick wit, and everything pleasant thing in between, including a ravenous hunger for knowledge. She wins less than half of their chess matches, but she learns from every game.

Her idea sticks with him well into the late evening hours. Around three o’clock, he grabs a notepad off his nightstand and starts writing.

***

The resignation of a medical assistant, even one as abrupt at this, doesn’t make headline news. It doesn’t even make the gossip train. In all likelihood, Joan might have never known if not for a quick stop at _Joe’s_ and a short conversation with the owner which ultimately brings her reluctantly to the precinct front desk. Joe hasn’t seen Edward, when he used to be seen regularly for food pick-up, so the least Joan can do for her former boss is make sure Ed is still eating.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the desk sergeant says, “Nygma dropped out three months ago. Didn’t show up for work one day; never came back.”

The news shocks her more than it really should – or at least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. Even more alarming is the attempted visit at his loft; the new tenants have no sympathy for her plight and slam the door in her face.

Captain Gordon is her only remaining lifeline. He answers the door with a baby tucked in his arm and a burp rag slung over the other shoulder. She is invited in and finds the apartment appropriately baby-proofed – perhaps even excessively so, but she isn’t one to judge. Her father’s idea of ‘baby proofing’ was to warn his daughter to not stick forks in the electrical socket and then wait for curiosity to defy his warning.

“Sorry about the mess.” Captain Gordon says, closing the door with his foot and gesturing for her to take a seat on the couch. “Between the two of us, Lee and I don’t have much time to clean.”

“It’s fine.” She answers with a tiny smile, “Do you put her in daycare while you’re at work?”

“I have something better.” The blonde captain gently sets the baby down in her swing and pulls a purple blanket over her sleeping form, “Iris volunteered to take care of her little sister; saves on the cost, and Barbara gets to grow up with Celeste.”

Joan remembers Iris as the reclusive teenager buried in musty old volumes from the library; to imagine her not only as a mother but also a mafia don is shocking and yet strangely fitting. Iris always paved her own way in life, and what little tidbits of rumor Joan has heard indicates Iris is reshaping Gotham’s underworld in a revolutionary way.

“Is…Is Iris doing well?” Joan’s graduation was early, a direct result of her acceleration through the rigors of a doctorate program, and the girls’ home snatched her up when staffing budgets were cut; at barely twenty-five, she was not terribly older than Iris and recalls a sisterly affection which was not strictly appropriate for her position. Still, it was difficult to treat the young orphan with the same boundaries as her fellows; even at thirteen Iris displayed proof of an intelligence which, not unlike Joan herself, advanced her quickly through academia. Her mind was keen, her tongue sharp, and while her emotional stability was always questionable, her maturity level was almost alarming.

“She is.” Captain Gordon looks proud, as a father should. “Celeste is growing up to be a beautiful young woman, just like her mother. Barbara loves her.”

Joan manages a better smile, but it falters quickly. “I…I’m here about Edward.”

“He’s living with Iris.” He answers, without missing a beat; he doesn’t even look bothered that she’s asking – although, really, why would he? Why is she even worried about this? – but happily continues to provide the bare-bone details surrounding Edward’s departure and relocation.

“Is he…alright?”

Now, the captain pauses; when he speaks again, his tone is heavy, “I don’t know.”

***

To say she is not welcomed at DeLaine Manor is a gross understatement.

“I’m not here as a doctor to examine his psychological wellbeing,” Joan says, with as much dignity as she can muster considering the cold-shoulder treatment, “I’m just a friend checking up on him.”

“He is here with me,” Iris answers; the chilly reception was something Joan once tolerated from the younger woman in the orphanage, but she definitely wasn’t expecting this when both women should have a common goal here, “He is fine.”

Joan breathes slowly, collecting her thoughts, and tries again, “Iris, I am not the enemy here.”

“No?” she answers quietly; she’s grown taller; being a mother has filled out some of her curves, but she remains lean in her muscles and toned everywhere else, “I think you know that is not entirely true, Joan.”

Tension quivers down her spine, and the grip she has on her purse strap tightens. “And you know I don’t speak in riddles, Iris.” Joan answers, her tone dipping down slightly. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

Blue eyes – and Joan remembers those blue eyes so well – blinks without emotion. “I have nothing to say.” She answers, “Other than to bid you good day. Butch,” referencing the massive hulk of humanity standing patiently at the door, “will show you out.”

Captain Gordon makes apologies for his daughter’s behavior and promises to speak with her in detail about this. Joan waves him off, saying it’s not necessary. She may not have appreciated being deposited on the front porch, but Iris is only protecting her own – something she must do, when she has nothing else to claim – and that is something Joan can, however reluctantly, appreciate.

***

By the time Celeste celebrates her eleventh year of life, Edward has filled no less than twelve notebooks with what can best be described as stream of consciousness. Granted, when the conscious thought comes from a mind such as his, the result is an extensive assortment of riddles, ‘what-if’ mystery writing prompts, riddles, daily observations, and a few more riddles.

“What will you do with it, God-papa?” Celeste asks from her perch on the arm of Edward’s chair. She has been studying the contents of about half the piled notebooks with great seriousness for over an hour, and now draws closer to her godfather to make inquiry.

Edward shrugs; for the first time weeks, he feels oddly at ease. Seeing his work printed on paper is, somehow, a source of great comfort and reassurance to a mind which has otherwise been tormented. Especially the riddles. He’s always been good – the best – when it came to solving riddles and puzzles. Riddles make everything…make sense.

“I never was,” he hoists her willowy frame atop his lap and lets her curl in close with a happy sound, “but am always to be, and everyone looks forward to me. What am I?”

“The future.” Celeste answers, with an immediate display of her mother’s intelligence, and earns his smile in return.

“Exactly.” Edward whispers into her hair, one hand rubbing her back in a singular shape, “And the future is a blank slate.”

For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters and ideas. Otherwise, I'm playing in Gotham's sandbox.


End file.
